


and it's funny because it's true

by spheeris1



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, F/F, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:04:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spheeris1/pseuds/spheeris1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU // "And it’s funny because Helena hasn’t felt this way in a very, very long time – and the one time she did feel this way it was about a lover, about someone she used to spend hours aching for, about someone who could have had her heart… and Myka Bering cannot have Helena’s heart – or anything else of Helena’s - because Myka Bering is only seventeen."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 'and it's funny because it's true'

**Author's Note:**

> So I recently 'ended' this little AU tale and had a couple of requests to put all of the associated drabbles into one story - so to speak - and I thought, 'why not?' The drabbles are in somewhat of a sequential order, start to finish. Enjoy.
> 
> Also: music tends to play a big part in my writing process, so if you are interested, check this mix out - 8tracks dot com (/) spheeris1 (/) and-it-s-funny-because-it-s-true

~ ~

“It was love at first sight, at last sight, at ever and ever sight.”  
\- Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita, Part Two, Ch. 29

\- - -

Helena looks and then looks away.

But once the bell chimes through the room, causing a succession of leather soles to slide across the floor in barely restrained haste – for this is the end of another week, for this is the beginning of the weekend – a small sigh of relief is allowed to move past Helena’s lips.

And only a few students take their time in leaving, exchanging comments with one another or trading phone numbers or playfully shoving each other as they gravitate towards the door.

And only one student nears the desk, leaning against it like it is an accident and murmuring something along the lines of ‘See you on Monday, Miss Wells’ and Helena keeps her eyes on the papers below – a series of A’s, B’s and a couple of D’s – instead of glancing up into that green gaze; instead of trailing an inviting stare up the length of those slightly tan arms or across the surface of a white-cotton chest or pausing quite inappropriately over full, red lips.

“See you then, Myka.” Helena replies into half-assed book reports and holds her breath until the girl finally goes away.

And Helena sighs – again – and presses her palm hard against her forehead; presses her palm hard against thoughts that just will not cease.

\- - -

The first dream was shocking but, perhaps, not totally unexpected.

\- - -

Helena isn’t the kind of person to feel comfortable with just anyone. She isn’t rushing to chaperone dances or to monitor field-trips; she isn’t here to force students to appreciate the knowledge so readily available to them…

Enthusiasm and ambition are up to the individual, after all.

But there in Myka Bering’s words – blue pen on paper – was a single flare sent up in a forest and Helena was the only one to look up at such a sparkling glare against the gray sky. And so she encouraged the girl to write, to create, to self-edit and question and think and feel… and so they talked and so they laughed and so they formed a connection that should have stayed at teacher and student…

But, truly, they should have never formed anything with one another.

\- - -

And that first dream…

…sidles up to Helena’s subconscious in a manner most devious, all cool and calm like a normal day, and the sunlight is too bright and the sound of her heels on the floor are too loud and Myka is smiling at her – holding something that Helena wants and it is just out of reach…

…behind the girl’s back and Helena reaches around the girl’s waist to get to it and there is the ghostly brush of skin against skin – beyond cloth, beyond rules – and Myka is talking so softly that Helena cannot hear her at all; sentences tattooed to her neck and Helena feels this delicious gasp fall from her tongue before she hears it echo off the walls…

\- - -

She is the one with the power. She is the one with the responsibility. She is the one who must think, must rationalize, must be professional and untouchable and indifferent.

She is the one with the cross to bear. She is the one with the desires to crush. She is the one who must refrain, must create distance, must be strong in the face of such temptation.

And Myka leans too close – over her shoulder, breath fluttering upon the ear – and Helena has to stop herself from shoving the girl away… or from pulling her closer still.

Helena has to stop this.

Helena has to stop.

\- - -

And then those dreams – those completely wrong and completely irresistible dreams - became far too frequent.

\- - -

“You didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to, you know.”

Helena looks up sharply from a stack of textbooks and from battered copies of Wuthering Heights to see Myka Bering standing in an otherwise empty classroom – with arms crossed and with a wounded stare very much present.

But Helena did what had to be done.

She placed those walls back up and she shifted her focus – her acceptable focus – onto other students and, in essence, gave Myka the cold shoulder. It is for the best, that’s what Helena knows to be true; it is the best for her and for Myka and so that is what must be done.

But Helena is hard pressed to enjoy the look of pain that settles upon Myka’s face.

“We cannot discuss this here, all-right? In fact, we cannot discuss this at all.”  
“That’s not very ‘adult’ of you…”

A roll of the eyes and the hips cock out to one side and that saddened expression becomes one of anger instead and Helena forces her attention back to the books, back to the work, back to ignorance. But Myka isn’t going to let that happen, not just yet, and suddenly the girl is right in front of her and she is taking hold of Helena’s hand like she owns it, like this is okay, like this classroom isn’t the whole damn world on display.

“Just talk to me.”

And the taut line that is pulled throughout Helena’s body begins to loosen; and the bones of her body begin to bend towards this touch.

“I can’t. I can’t talk to you.”  
“Why not?”

And she closes her eyes as Myka’s voice descends into a whisper, as that hold slowly evolves into a gentle caress, as all sense of propriety flies out the window and Helena is left with only the horrible, beautiful truth.

“Because talking is the very last thing I want to do with you.”

\- - -

And those frequent dreams…

…are set in classrooms, are set in bathrooms, are up against locker doors, are in Helena’s king-size bed…  
…are rarely slow and are often rushed, are breathless and wicked and terrifying and blissful…  
…are so very good, so very real, that Helena has awakened more than once to her hips rolling or to her hand sliding over her own slick want and the sickening twist of ecstasy is difficult to resist in the middle of the night and so Helena sets to finishing what has been started and groans out orgasm after orgasm into the shadows of her empty house…

\- - -

Just once.

Just once and she saw it coming but she didn’t stop it.

And Helena really needs to learn how to stop these things from happening.

But it was a moment of thinking that she could handle this non-involvement and Myka’s incessant looks of longing were getting too hard to lose track of and so they got to talking about something safe – literature and writing and the future. And Helena said something and Myka laughed and they looked at one another and then…

It was just once.

It was just the one time – Myka’s lips firm against her own – and Helena should have stopped it.

But it was a moment of not-thinking and she didn’t want to handle anything other than the wonderful reality of Myka’s lips gradually parting underneath the instinctual tilting of Helena’s head and the kiss deepened and Helena slipped long fingers through the satin curls of Myka’s hair.

Just once.

Just once and someone slammed a door from the opposite side of the hallway and Helena broke away from Myka’s mouth as though she had been doused with ice-cold water.

\- - -

And so the ramifications of these actions continue to fall down upon Helena’s head like her own personal guillotine.

\- - -

_“You know… you’ve got a quite a bit of talent, I think…  
“Really? You really think so?”  
“I do. Have you ever thought of submitting some of these stories to some kind of publication?”  
“Oh, I don’t know… I mean, not really… Not seriously, I mean…”  
“Well, I think you should, Myka.”_

_A shy glance and a half smile and Helena grins at the girl, handing back a notebook full of promise._

_“…Would you be willing to help me? You know, like an editor…?”_

_And Helena, who doesn’t like to get close to anyone – not teachers and definitely not students – reaches out to deliver a supportive squeeze to Myka’s forearm._

_“I’d be happy to.”_

\- - -

All things break, in one way or another; all things fall apart eventually.

And it could have been Helena leaving and it could have been Myka telling someone what happened and it could have been someone suspecting something and it could have dwindled down to nothing at all – infatuation that went both ways for a while and then died.

In the end, though, they were worlds always meant to collide.

\- - -

_And it’s funny because Helena notices the girl – randomly and then not so randomly – and the girl sort of grins over at her on occasion and it’s like they are sharing an unspoken conversation; gazes lit up from within as they catch one another looking and whole paragraphs transferred without the use of language._

_And it’s funny because Helena hasn’t felt this way in a very, very long time – and the one time she did feel this way it was about a lover, about someone she used to spend hours aching for, about someone who could have had her heart…_

_…and Myka Bering cannot have Helena’s heart – or anything else of Helena’s - because Myka Bering is only seventeen._

\- - -

There is no one else around.

But there is solitary tear cascading down Myka’s cheek and Helena’s defenses just crumble. And her thumb glides over this show of silent sorrow and the air leaves Myka’s mouth as a shudder and Helena’s resolve just disappears.

And she surges forward and she captures Myka’s lips and she brings their bodies together until Myka is pinned between Helena and the cool brick wall; and her hands work their way down the sides of Myka’s body and over the hips and then to the edge of this pleated navy blue school skirt, pushing it up until she can place her palms over heated skin at the top of thighs.

And Myka gasps and involuntarily bucks – just the tiniest bit – into Helena and so Helena applies more pressure to the ever-widening juncture between Myka’s legs; pressing and then barely thrusting, listening to the movement of clothing and the sound of Myka breathing so heavily and she pulls back only to dip her fingers past one last barrier and Myka’s eyes fly open… before slowly rolling back and then closing…

And Helena latches teeth to Myka’s neck as she pumps her fingers in and out, as she slides in deeper and deeper, as Myka shakes and bites down on that bottom lip in order to not scream, to pant, to moan during this wonderfully wrong moment in time.

And they tumble and topple into one another as release follows release, as pleasure burns off like a blue flame.

And they crash and they crack and they break into a million pieces.

\- - -

_And it’s funny because Myka Bering doesn’t consider herself to be gay or anything…_

_…but there’s just something she can’t get over when it comes to Helena Wells. And all the guys think she is hot, too, and Myka knows that the woman is attractive._

_You’d have to be blind not to notice that. But it is something else, something more than that that Myka wants to know, wants to understand, wants to get close to… and it really is kind of funny because Myka is pretty sure she isn’t gay or anything…_

_…but those kind things don’t really matter because Myka has such a huge fucking crush on Helena Wells and it doesn’t feel like this crush is going to go away any time soon…_

\- - -

“What happens now?”

A question from a doorway. Fingers quietly letting go. Eyes everywhere but where they want to be.

“…I haven’t a clue.”

\- - -

And it’s funny because it’s true.

\- - -


	2. 'take these tender prints and make them permanent'

~ ~

_scintilla: a spark or very small thing._

She writes the word down in a journal – a beaten up and battered thing that Tracy never wanted to get her hands on and that her mother thought too terribly tame…

…but she writes the word down, all unspoken and dug up in some dictionary (not for studying, but for writing; not for lessons, but for learning) and so the curve of each letter only brings Helena to mind.

/ / /

In her head, that’s what Myka calls her – ‘Helena’ – it is never ‘Miss Wells’ outside of school room walls; it is more personal, it is more intimate, and Myka stands in the shower for a long time as she imagines saying that name out loud… gasping that name out loud… etching that name into her bones…

Tracy bangs on the door and Myka blinks as hot water rushes over her face.

/ /

They talk of Miss Wells in whispers; they look at her with leers, they make locker-room jokes and other girls roll their eyes – in jealousy, in annoyance. But Myka understands this wanting as much as she dislikes the way it shows itself – a tightness deep inside, fingers nervous against the desk, a warmth that won’t go away – and boys have to jerk off in the parking lot to get rid of their blackboard fantasies while Myka must wait for nighttime to fall and for parents to start snoring before she can find relief.

She wonders what it would be like… what would it be like to feel the weight of Helena on top of her… what would it be like to slide her palms along the woman’s back… what would it be like to hear that voice whisper her name – ‘Myka’ – right before they kiss?

It is a tightness deep inside and so Myka sets to loosening these strands of desire, one gorgeous thread at a time…

/

Miss Wells’s fingers curl around her arm and Myka thinks of tattoos – of how they mark the skin for all the world to see – and she’d love to take these tender prints and make them permanent.

And there is a spark, a very little thing, right there as their eyes meet…

…Myka flutters to life as those fingers slowly slip away…

/


	3. 'temptation'

~ ~

What is temptation?

Is it when the voice inside of your head tells you that your impulses are wrong? Is it when you know the difference between what is right to do and what is easy to do… and you still choose the path of least resistance?

Is it the way she hovers near your car as you hide away in the shadow of whiteboards and black markers, hiding away from what you’ve already done, from what you’ve already set in motion?

What is temptation to you, Helena?

Is it being sixteen and in love for the first time, told to keep your legs crossed but you open them all the same? Is it being older – so much older now – and imagining the taste of a someone’s skin… behind the knee or the curve of a breast… Is this your kind of temptation today?

You hold back.  
And you hold it in.  
You hold fast.  
And you hold on… you hold on… you hold on…

\- - -

The drive to her house is so silent; no radio and no talking.

But they’ve done all the talking that they could do – about writing, about reading, about the future, about stopping, about wanting – and Myka Bering must not lie very often because her parents don’t even question the excuse given.

Myka Bering is a good daughter. Myka Bering is good.

And Helena’s hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles white with effort, and a line looms ahead of them, a line they have crossed and wish to cross again… But it isn’t until a soft touch settles against Helena’s cheek – Myka’s lips pressed together in a whisper of a kiss – that the sand is smoothed out once more; barriers subtly erased and forever wiped away.

And it is doors opening and closing, locks being turned and lights left off; it is hidden sort of thing – they are hidden away from the world for a second or two longer.

\- - -

She trembles against the sheets, chilled and nervous…

…the eyes, though, give the girl away and so Helena takes her time. She trips her way up from the ankle to the flat stomach, hot kisses left like benediction, and Myka Bering confesses everything.

To need – fisting the cotton, then gripping Helena’s back; breathless moans that sound like prayers.  
To have – hips that continue to jerk, asking for more and more; green gaze near to black with desire.  
To be – and the name ‘Helena’ falls off of her tongue so sweetly; so sweetly it slides between the two of them…

…and Helena didn’t intend to but she comes upon Myka’s well-placed thigh, shuddering and eyes closed and the heel of her hand still pressing relentlessly against Myka’s clit and Helena’s whole body curls around this feeling – this amazing feeling – and so her fingers do the same and Myka is suddenly taut beneath her…

…strung up by innocent love and sinful orgasms…

\- - -

What is temptation?

Is it giving in when you know the outcome cannot be a nice one? Is it staring at the face of someone who adores you and, instead of turning away, you look right back at them… knowing that you’ll break their heart, knowing that this is not the way things should ever be?

Is it in the starting? Is it in the not stopping? Is it in your bed – her legs straddling you as you drag your lips over every available inch of her skin… Is this where temptation lives today?

What is temptation to you, Helena?

Is it Myka Bering? Or will it be a million girls just like her? Is this it…?

…Is it?

\- - -

And Helena takes a deep breath and her eyes open and the classroom swims into view again.

\- - -


	4. 'papercuts'

~

_Helena watches the water as it runs over her fingertips, watches this cold river as it slides over these subtle wounds – razor-thin injuries that make it hard to touch…_

_…hard but certainly not impossible…_

_Oh no, she has turned up her nose at impossible and has dived head-long into unpredictable; she has taken hold of each and every rule – the things they drive into you, the standards they set for you – only to break them all._

_And it will hurt, one day soon – of that Helena is sure – but right now it is papercuts and the delicious sting of regret._

/

Two weeks since their transgression, two weeks since Myka Bering asked a question that Helena had no answer for…

_…two very long weeks indeed…_

And for every day after the fact, a green-eyed stare has followed Helena down the hallways and around the classroom and all the way home again; stalking Helena into the shower – water too hot, thoughts too raw – and lingering beside Helena in her bed – a ghost of want, a specter of shame.

Control, left to slip once or twice, is now what Helena craves… control over herself, over this situation, over the boundaries that Myka refuses to see, over the emotions that really shouldn’t be there at all…

Control - this is the land that Helena so wishes to reclaim.

But it is late on a Friday afternoon - long after buses have filed out in tidy yellow rows and fast cars have sped away from the parking lot, leaving only the staff of this school still holding off the weekend – and the door to this classroom softly clicks shut and Helena looks up from blue-lined essays to find Myka Bering standing there.

And within that steadfast gaze, Helena can see the safety of shore drifting further and further away.

Helena has prepared herself for this moment, though.

Ready with words, with barriers that – this time – will not be breached, ready with her reasons that really should make sense to the young woman drawing closer and closer to this desk.  
But Myka Bering wears the expression of one who is in the mood to do some convincing of her own.

And Helena fears she will be all too easy to sway.

“Myka—“  
“What are you working on?”

Helena blinks because the inquiry catches her off-guard and whatever she was going to say gets lost on her tongue; she stumbles over a reply and shifts the papers with fingers that shake, fingers that don’t know what to do with themselves now and some sub-par paragraphs end up cutting into her flesh.

“Dammit…”

And just like that, Myka leans across the surface of this desk and takes ahold of Helena’s hand… studying where the grooves have been split, running a tender caress up from the palm and then back down again, opting to settle around the wrist – loose but not loose enough – and it is painfully slow the way Myka descends… satin curls falling down around the face and eyelids fluttering until they are closed… and Helena swears that her heart stops beating the very second that Myka’s lips make contact with her burning fingertips – kisses whispered against her skin, one by one…

…kisses so exquisitely agonizing that a moan is pulled from Helena's mouth and the sanctuary that she had hoped for is forever lost…

Helena is moving without thinking again – out of her seat and into Myka; out of her seat and surging forward, hips hitting the edge of this desk as she tugs Myka nearer… as Myka comes willingly… and Helena is wanting without thinking again – their lips crash and then claim; their lips part and Myka’s tongue eagerly fills up Helena’s mouth and they are both straining over such a small distance… over sheets of classwork and endless grading, over this smooth expanse of wood… and Helena is taking without thinking again.

…taking such stupid chances, such stupid risks… taking Myka when Helena should be pushing Myka away…

Instead, they are breathless once they break away from these feverish kisses; breathless as their foreheads press and slide against each other, breathless because they cannot truly break away from each other at all and Helena stares hard at Myka’s lips – lips left bruised by this lust - and Helena’s only desire is to take even more, to take every ounce of Myka that she can.

Rounded corners of the desk are cleared as Helena moves to stand before Myka and those green eyes burn so bright once their bodies align – warmth found past shirt hems, teeth skimming the skin, thighs fitting like puzzle pieces – and they are both on fire now; they are gasping and groaning and Helena’s hands have their own ideas – gripping Myka’s hips and pushing upwards until Myka is perched upon the edge of the desk, long legs now open within this skirt and swift palms are already gliding over soft flesh as Myka’s fingernails dig into Helena’s back… digging and holding and tugging her closer still… closer and closer until sheets of paper are tumbling and pens are clattering upon the floor, until Myka’s back is on the desk and Helena is finally between those long legs – fitfully grinding as the wet heat of Myka’s mouth sucks her back in again, as Myka’s body responds in kind… rocking and urging and begging… until all semblance of restraint has been obliterated.

They are rough with one another, aiming for more friction and clamoring for more contact – the desk creaks then moves, Myka curls around Helena’s hips, and Helena moans into the curve of Myka’s neck – but even this is not enough…

_…no, not nearly enough…_

And so her fingers drag over heaving breasts (pushing against cotton, aching to be caressed) and then down the side and to the thigh, lifting away reluctantly as Myka softly whimpers in protest (still bucking and seeking hot pressure) – but those whimpers go from desperate to blissful in a matter of seconds as Helena slips beneath the damp material of Myka’s underwear, as Helena slips inside of Myka and watches in fascination as Myka’s whole body arcs upwards, as Myka’s eyelids flutter rapidly and one hand reaches back to grip the edge of this desk, as Myka’s hips roll to meet Helena’s thrusts (three fingers deep and thumb rubbing over the clit), as Myka begins to unravel so wonderfully…

_…not nearly enough, but so close, so very close…_

…and Myka wants Helena to fall apart as well, to crumble under the weight of this desire and to always give in to this pull between them; Myka wants and so Myka sets out to get and Helena feels this touch before she sees it. Helena feels Myka move closer and brush lips against her jaw, feels Myka’s fingers trip over ribs and tremble against the skin, feels those same fingers as they push and dive underneath the waist of Helena’s pants and Myka wants so much and Helena… oh god, Helena needs Myka so badly… and so she rises to meet this keen stroke, canting her hips and practically crawling atop Myka and this desk, acquiescing to her own hunger even as she continues to pump in and out of Myka – smooth, slick warmth that will surely be the death of Helena – and Myka wants and Helena needs and everything that should matter doesn’t matter… the rules they are flaunting, the years that separate them, a door that is shut but not locked, the threat of being caught…

They come undone and nothing else matters.

/

_And her fingertips grow numb under this deluge, tingling with a new kind of discomfort, and Helena closes her eyes…_

_…only to find Myka Bering looking back at her, cheeks pink with rapture and lips parted._

_And so the sting grows sharper still._

/


	5. 'forever is this'

~ ~

Helena says that this is only temporary, that the invisible ropes that bind them will soon unfurl and set them both free – kites lost to the heavens, tethered no more – and Myka will grow up and bust the sides of this town like small stockings…

…but it is hard to believe a word the woman says when her lips dance along the back of Myka’s neck, tender yet desperate, and with each breath comes the notion that forever is right now.

Right now, buried in one another, in all the ways that should be wrong but that feel so wonderfully right.

/ /

Helena says that this has to stop, chalk handprints on her skirt – evidence that can be wiped away, after all, is the best kind – and the slam of locker doors echoes into the classrooms and the voices chatter around them like birds just waking up and Myka looks away before the wounds start to show, before childish tears start to slip down her face…

…but it is hard to believe that this is the end when the woman sighs so softly and lingers by Myka’s desk, guilty yet full of longing, and with each slow walk comes the notion that forever is here.

Here, inches apart from one another, in all the ways that should be right but that feel so damn wrong.

/ /

Helena says her name and therein lies the curse as well as the benediction – a whisper in the shadows, hot against the ear – and Myka drops to her knees in rapture, long fingers learning another lesson in what love means, what desire does, what lying tastes like on her eager tongue…

_“…Myka…”_

…but it is hard to hear anything beyond the pounding of her own heart, the thunder of a thousand wild animals… bearing down within her blood, these hooves and claws of lust… and with each strangled moan that tumbles down comes the notion that forever is this.

This, Myka’s mouth working over Helena’s slick heat, in all the ways that should matter…

/ /

…but that don’t matter at all.

/ /


	6. 'mask of adulthood'

~ ~

It is the morning and she sees herself in a cup of coffee – a bit more black than it used to be, packets of sugar lost as the years pass by; she sees herself as fingers do up the buttons and as she applies lipstick of a faded red, as she pulls the barest hint of black through lashes already rather dark.

And the world hands her this mask of adulthood and so Helena puts it on.

…

It is the afternoon and she sees herself as white chalk against a blackboard – antiquated puffs of steam in a mechanized world; she sees herself in the bored eyes of sixteen and seventeen year olds, she sees herself as a list of rules regularly recited and then duly ignored.

And the world hands her this vision of all the days to come and so Helena looks no further.

…

It is the press of her shoulder blades into the mattress and it is the way her breath echoes off the walls and it is the spreading of gooseflesh – down the arms, up the thighs, and along the stomach – and it is the night and she sees herself.

She sees herself as a bow string – pulled until she is taut; she sees herself from a comforting distance, too – a series of movements best left in the darkness…

…a knee lifts or hips pivot or a mouth is caught in some kind of heady, wet embrace…

…and then she returns, crashing into her own bones again, as what has been chased is finally dragged down to the hard ground and she sees herself as nothing more than what she has allowed Myka Bering to make of her.

…

It is the night and Helena sees herself – an arm tingling with sleep and a girl curled around her and enough shadows to cover up these weak-willed sins.

Helena sees herself.

And then she closes her eyes.

…


	7. 'midnight'

~ ~

_She’s asking you for a kiss but you know that she wants more than that; longing like gallows in her stare, glittering green at your doorstep as all the clocks stop on midnight._

_And who are you to deny her?_

_You’ve been giving in by degrees, day after day – books silently shut, murmuring over year-end scores, coffee stains around mug rims and tinsel around the windows – you’ve been letting go of the reins inch by inch, until all your wild horses can run free._

/ /

Myka has a mane of hair, chestnut-brown and unbridled, and the strands weave around Helena’s fingers like roots. They hold fast, soft and fine bindings, and when did sweet release become so closely linked to being captured anyhow?

Myka tilts like a dancer, poise born of practice, and Helena cannot stop the subtle thrill that cascades throughout her bones at the thought that these moves are of her making – this neck as it bends, these lips as they moisten and then part, this sway into Helena’s orbit…

…Helena coaxed the learning and Myka took to the lessons.

Myka bucks into this touch, wet behind the ears and slick in all the right places, and she is asking Helena for a kiss.

But she wants so much more than that.

/ /

_The bell tolls and somewhere the cities come to life – drunken revelry and bursts of bright red, affection put upon a pedestal for a moment – and the watch on your arm is forgotten as your tongue slides into her mouth, as you let her fingertips graze your willing cheek and push against each beat of your pulse, as she asks for more and as you give it to her._

_Because who are you to deny her…_

/ /

Helena stands there long after the fact, hearing the booming in the distance and it might as well be the swell of cannon-fire.

It might as well be a war, this new year, and she is the only soldier left standing; left to stare at Myka’s retreating footprints pressed so permanently into damp grass, left with battlements set ablaze in the wake of this unending desire.

And lights fill up the sky and it might as well be the end of everything and when did love start to feel just like despair anyway?

/ /

_…and who are you to deny yourself?_

/ /


	8. 'knowing the truth'

~ ~

It is easy to pretend that there is a forever waiting for them – out there, past the missteps and beyond the judgments – but Helena knows the truth. Honesty bears down on her body like the weight of the whole damn world, like the pressure of Myka’s slumbering head against her chest…

…pre-dawn light casting shadows over the face, warm breath sliding softly over the skin, innocence and sinfulness caught in one perfect moment…

It is easy to pretend that this is a love that will last.

But Helena knows the truth.

/ /

_“Ours is a love that ends…”_

/ /

The words fall short on the page and Helena finds her fingers quick to rip up this missive, watching the pieces settle into a mess – much like these feelings, much like this affair, much like everything about she and Myka and what they’ve been doing all through the seasons.

Autumn saw them ignite against their will, winter filled them up with lust and lies, and spring – brave hands held and shy smiles shared – tasted like something real; like something that didn’t know an age, like something that doesn’t abide by the rules.

Like something that could withstand the inevitable shattering of such tempting illusions.

And so Helena starts again and hopes for a better way to say good-bye and begs her unrelenting heart to cease beating so hard every time she even writes down the girl’s name.

/ /

_“…not because of want, but because of necessity…”_

/ /

Myka has this way of looking through Helena that seems like indifference – _“I learned to do that with my sister, Tracy”_ – and so no one ever suspects a thing. Not in all this time have they been caught or even garnered a suspicious glance; Helena is the kind-of teacher who makes time for students that truly want to learn and Myka is the kind-of student that everyone can rely on to go that extra mile.

It makes sense that there would be special credit assignments that take hours to complete; it makes sense that academic interests would be indulged and so Myka says that she is meeting Ms. Wells at the library to go over that last paper and Myka’s parents smile with the utmost confidence and other teachers compliment Helena on her ‘go-getter’ attitude.

And the guilt always burns for a moment – there, in Helena’s askance stare and there, as Myka bites her bottom lip – but that flame always burns out and is replaced with a much hotter fire.

All it takes is a single touch and everything that they are doing wrong feels right again.

Everything that they do to each other – it just makes sense.

/ /

_“…You will leave here and I will stay and all the ways in which we are not right for one another will begin to shine through…”_

/ /

She says it, just once.

And it clatters into Helena mouth with a kiss, sweet and breathless, and she wants to beg Myka to take it back, to make those few syllable meaningless again, and it must show on her face – frozen features as their stolen minutes slip past, another Thursday afternoon hidden from gazes that do not pry – and Helena watches realization turn from wonder to weariness within Myka’s eyes.

And she never says it again.

And that’s what Helena wants, that’s how it must be after all, and so she presses her lips hard to the side of Myka’s head – in quiet consolation, in an admission of defeat for the both of them – and Myka drifts away in teenage sorrow, leaving Helena to linger behind this closed classroom door.

Leaving Helena broken in a way that Myka will never be allowed to see.

/ /

_“…but you must know that I do not regret what we have had, what we have shared with each other…”_

/ /

“What about you, Helena?”  
“…Pardon? Sorry, I was miles away…”  
“You seeing anyone?”

Conversations twist and turn from the scholastic to the social as the hours go by, the same circles made with every new day, and Helena smiles as tea leaves steep slowly by her side.

“I don’t have the time, I’m afraid.”

And some of them balk good-naturedly and some of them look at bit too closely – as if searching out potential faults or, perhaps, even seeking for a way in – and some of them start right back up with their own commiserations of loneliness and the sad state of the dating pool in this community.

And Helena sometimes thinks that she should find someone (someone more appropriate, someone much older, someone that no one here would ever know), but then she’ll look over the faces that she meets – chance encounters from stores to barrooms, looks over book spines and drinks – and not a single person strikes her fancy.

“That’s because you are always working. Take it from me, Helena…,” and Samantha Spratt fixes her with that bird-like stare, all sharp and knowing, “…giving your all to this profession will just leave you spent and alone.”

And then there is Myka, fluttering into focus, and Helena watches the tea swirl about the spoon and her reply echoes in this room just like a wounded sigh.

“…I know.”

/ /

_“…and I hope that you know how deeply I care for you…”_

/ /

It is easy to pretend.

And so, for a moment, Helena does just that. And she wraps her arms around Myka, grinning as the girl leans into this embrace. And Helena closes her eyes and takes a deep breath and inhales all of Myka – the scent of skin and of each strand of hair, the tender gasps and the heartbeats against her palm, the sentiments they can never say and the mistakes they cannot stop from making.

It is easy, so very easy, to pretend that this is everything.

And so, for a moment, they are the whole of the universe.

Myka and her beauty and her intelligence and the unspoiled way in which she yearns, filling up the missing spaces inside of Helena’s heart, and thumbs brush over a sliver of flesh and Myka shudders and Helena holds on a bit tighter and it is so easy, so very easy, to pretend that they can stay like this…

…just like this, just exactly like this…

…and so, for a moment, they are together and nothing else matters.

/ /

_“…and that I will always care for you, Myka… always…”_

/ /

First, it is a week.

Then it is two weeks and then it is three and they have not spoken to each other – contact elusive as they both studiously avoid one another – and the alcohol feels good going down Helena’s throat, a steady reminder that she did what had to be done (finally, finally, dear god, finally) and that this hurt will soon pass.

Myka won’t always be heartbroken; Helena won’t always feel like a killer.

And it feels good to set them both free from this disaster-in-waiting, to sever ties that were never meant to be, and it feels good to reclaim this control once lost – dangerous heat now replaced with something cooler, insides now made of stone instead of being so malleable – and it feels good to have turned all of this around, to no longer live in a land of make-believe and one day…someday… all of this pain will be worth it.

Myka won’t always hate her; Helena won’t always hate herself.

And it feels good, doesn’t it? It feels good to be the adult again, to be clear-headed and to do the right thing, to do the only thing that can be done…

…and sometimes feeling good feels just like falling apart doesn’t it?

/ /

_“…You must never doubt this…”_

/ /

Helena watches Myka out of the corner of her eye, gaze unwavering even as she speaks to other teachers and even as she shakes hands with the principal on a year gone well; Helena watches Myka talking to friends, red lips curving and sloping over sentences with a face framed by unruly curls.

And while she is unendingly proud of the grades that Myka Bering has earned, of the accolades that will surely carry the girl as far as she wishes to rise, Helena doesn’t like the look of all that black that Myka is made to wear.

Who decided that the time of graduation should appear as though a mass funeral were occurring?

It is a rather ghastly tradition or, perhaps, that is just the dour nature of Helena’s mind.

Because perhaps this isn’t just the end of high-school and another group of students, but the end of so much more and so it feels like a death has happened after all.

Myka looks at her once, almost as if she cannot stop herself from doing so, blinking fast when caught and Helena wants to smile at her but knows that she should not.

But then Helena wants to do a lot of things in that moment – lose all of her days ahead, speed Myka’s future up, to have never felt that body against her own, to have never let the girl go – and so she must let this moment pass, fingernails digging down into the flesh of her hands, just an addict and her addiction.

And then it is clapping and it is cheering and it is all so bittersweet and so damn final and Helena stares hard at the grooves upon the floor when Myka Bering walks across that stage, only chancing to look up once the girl is descending again – back straight, with lights outlining the edges, walking away from this school and from this town, walking away from Helena…

And so this is what it feels like to try and breathe when buried six feet under the ground.

/ /

_“…for it is the only truth that a fool such as me is allowed to give to you…”_

/ /

The dreams, by turns, have been illicit as well as tame – passions explored and then affection spoken – but these delicate visions simply dissolve as Myka continues to pound her fist on the locked door below, anger with each blow that pulls Helena from a fitful sleep and thrusts her into this reality that she has created.

And she should ignore it, now that the damage has been done, she should cover her ears and squeeze her eyes shut; she shouldn’t get up and she shouldn’t tremble as she walks down these stairs and she shouldn’t let Myka Bering into her life any more than she already has.

But it is three in the morning and Helena isn’t as noble as she’d like to be and this is the first time they have truly seen one another in months and Helena cannot stand the way that Myka looks because even torn and tearful, Myka Bering is far too lovely for words, and the air that suddenly floods into Helena’s lungs is so sweet and –

“I am such a fool.” Helena whispers, eyes drifting down to the letter clutched in Myka’s fist.

– what good is honesty if it wounds another so very much? What good is the truth if all it does is hurt the ones we so wish to protect? What if this is all there is, just the two of them in this moment, and what if this is all they will ever get?

And Myka pushes her, forceful and raw, and Helena takes this punishment until all that is left is the hopelessness – red around Myka’s eyes, damp across the cheeks – and Helena has no right to do any of this, she never did, but Myka sinks into her anyway and Helena buries her face into the girl’s hair and she breathes in deeply and it feels good.

It feels so damn good.

/ /

_“…forever yours, H…”_

/ /

It is easy to pretend that there is a forever waiting for them – out there, past the missteps and beyond the judgments – but Helena knows the truth.

Myka knows the truth, too.

And still they touch and they crave, they slide against one another and they ache until it is painful, and they give in to this love… this love that surely will not last…

“What happens now?”

A question left hanging by the ear. Fingers gently splayed upon the stomach. Eyelids fluttering until closed.

“…I haven’t a clue.”

/ /

And it’s funny because it’s true.

/ /

**(end)**


End file.
